Pulling Rank
by T'Pring
Summary: When Ronon and an injured Sheppard are stuck on a deserted planet surrounded by Michael's Bug Monsters, Ronon must decide whether to follow Sheppard's lead, or follow his own instincts.  In the end, it comes down to trust...
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This is just a little one-shot, in three chapters, (does that mean it's not a oneshot anymore?), more character than plot focused for a change (for me anyway). Nothing spectacular... but enjoy and let me know what you think!_

A cloud of mist rose before Ronon's nose with each breath he blew into the damp, chilly air. He was panting in time to the urgent pace of his feet, and he grunted slightly as he yet again shifted his hold on the man limping along next to him – yet again taking more of Sheppard's weight. Ronon felt the slight tug on his shoulder with every hopping step Sheppard took, and saw the man's equally quick breath also puffing out slight clouds of fog into the silvery moonlight around them.

The ground they were jogging over was soft and powdery and his heels sank slightly into the tilled earth. The crisp swish of their footsteps through tall grasses and the squishy feel of the dirt under their feet suddenly reminded Ronon of walking in the friendly Athosian settlement, listening to Teyla praise her people for hard work well done. This was good soil, good land…but there were no friends here.

Sheppard stumbled on a thick tuft of hay and pulled on Ronon's shoulder as he regained his footing, then kept going. Ronon couldn't help but glance down with worry, quickly looking away again as Sheppard sucked in a hissing gasp and cursed quietly in a low mutter.

Ronon gritted his teeth. "Sheppard, we need to go faster."

"We need to find shelter." Sheppard's voice was little more than an annoyed growl.

"The 'gate is only 4 Kliks from here…"

"Too far."

"The moon is setting, if we stop, we'll lose the light until morning."

"All the…more reason…to find a defensible spot…now."

Ronon seethed for a few silent paces. _Defense_ sounded like _surrender_ to the runner who'd survived on offense alone for so many years. There WAS no defense against the Wraith. But Sheppard's people were more careful, more reserved, and Ronon again found himself chafing under the restraint. As much as he admired his friend and team leader, Sheppard could drive him crazy with precaution. Ronon bit back his irritation.

"I don't like sitting around." _Going to ground like some damned grass-runner and hoping the thesta doesn't find the hole…_

As if he were reading Ronon's thoughts, Sheppard went on in a wry rasp, "Don't worry, Big Guy. You'll get your chance to blow some of those bugs back to hell before the night is over. We can't hide from them forever."

Ronon almost scoffed in annoyance when the full impact of Sheppard's subtle phrasing sank a knot into his gut. _You'l__l get __your__ chance…?_

"Sheppard?"

"I really hate those bugs…"

Before Ronon could decide to press further, the hand on his shoulder tightened as Sheppard hissed again and sagged a bit further into Ronon's support, hinting at the answer to the unasked question. Ronon glanced down once more at the sweat-slicked face of his friend, but Sheppard limped doggedly onward, his expression determined and unafraid, his gaze keenly scanning the gloomy fencerows around them. The moon's silver glow lit the path they jogged between tall, well-groomed fields of grain. Those fields would never be harvested, Ronon thought, thinking again of the Athosian way of life. The realization felt like an ill omen.

"There!" Sheppard said at last, waving the P-90 he held clutched in the hand he wasn't using to cling to Ronon. "That'll do."

Ronon followed the gesture and finally spotted the small wooden doorway set into a low sloping hill that Sheppard was now leaning towards. In the strange white moonlight, the door seemed to simply grow out of the hill itself, but with a closer look, Ronon realized that the farmers had most likely dug a shallow cave out of the earth and wedged a simple square frame into the space. Time and erosion had embraced all but the front walls with earth, offering the home a natural way to regulate temperature year-round.

Reluctantly following Sheppard's lead, Ronon approached the dwelling with wary caution. Within a few steps of the door, Sheppard let go of Ronon's shoulder and shrugged out of his supportive embrace. Ronon stepped away to peer behind the flowery bushes growing up all around the front of the house while Sheppard dug in his vest, pulling out his life signs scanner.

"No one's home," he said shortly thereafter.

"Too bad. Let's go."

"Let's go _in_."

Ronon stiffened, feeling trapped. He really wanted to just keep moving, to get to the 'gate. For a runner, survival was about getting to the 'gate! "John!" he snarled, gearing up for an argument. Sheppard's people also liked to talk – a lot. Another difference between them that Ronon often found irritating.

"Specialist!" Sheppard snapped back, glaring Ronon down.

_Damn him._ Ronon hated it when Sheppard pulled rank, but he did it rarely, and only when he was either in haste or about to get exasperatingly heroic. Glaring back, Ronon suddenly wondered what Sheppard was hiding. He held Sheppard's eyes a beat or two longer than was comfortable, then raised his eyebrow. Sheppard broke the contact first, chuckling.

"Fine," Ronon snapped, feigning acquiescence while, in truth, feeling another surge of worry. There'd been something in Sheppard's eyes…

They approached the door even more cautiously, despite the empty readings on the scanner. Sheppard managed to hop the few steps unassisted and propped himself heavily against the frame, his weapon secure in his hands in ready position. Ronon took a deep breath and pulled on the brass handle, throwing the door open and sweeping the dark interior of the little house with the muzzle of his own weapon in one smooth motion. Nothing met them but the slight scent of earthy air, and Ronon took another step inside.

A click at his shoulder was followed by a small glow of light, and he looked at the silver lighter Sheppard was holding up. "Funny," said Ronon with a sigh. If Sheppard was playing games, he must be pretty sure the house was empty.

Sheppard chuckled again and switched on the flashlight attached to the P-90. The small room was flooded with bright white light, and Sheppard swept the beam over simple furnishings – a cot, a table and chairs, a cabinet and sink – bare wooden floors and walls. There was a door in the back of the house that led deeper into the hill and Ronon edged towards it as Sheppard fixed the beam through into the blackness beyond.

"Still nobody home," Sheppard murmured, glancing again at the scanner.

Ronon poked his head through the door and confirmed his suspicion that the room beyond was little more than a dirt closet. Tools and vegetables were stacked in untidy piles, a basket of grain was in one corner, half-covered by a wad of burlap bags. "These people haven't been gone for long," he told Sheppard. "There are no rodents in the food, the floor has been swept."

"Probably took off with everybody else."

Ronon nodded in agreement at the bitter edge to Sheppard's voice. The beam of light over his shoulder suddenly wavered a bit, and Ronon heard a soft gasp before it steadied again. Satisfied that the hut was secure, for the moment, Ronon returned his attention to Sheppard, and quickly re-crossed the room to offer his shoulder.

"Think I'll sit down for a bit," Sheppard breathed softly as he accepted the help, nodding at the polished wooden table in the center of the room. Ronon lowered him into the adjoining chair, noticing that his friend was nearly unable to put any weight at all on the damaged leg.

"Let me check the bandage again."

"I got it," Sheppard grunted, setting his P-90 carefully on the table – within easy reach – and already leaning over to light the small candle that sat there with the silver lighter. "You go check the door, clear the perimeter." Ronon watched him next set the scanner beside the P-90 where he could easily see the screen. He flicked off the flashlight, the room seeming darker for a moment, then brightening again as the candle stuttered to life.

Ronon narrowed his eyes, "Then what?"

"Then we order pizza and pay-per-view." Despite the glare Ronon continued to bore into Sheppard's skull, he wouldn't meet Ronon's gaze and just started rummaging in a vest pocket. "I got your six," he added, tapping the scanner and dismissing him with indifference.

Ronon stalked to the door, grinding his teeth. He leaned against the frame for a long moment, peering into the deepening dark beyond the candlelight that spilled faintly over the threshold. The moon was out of sight behind him, hidden by the hill that the house sat underneath. His hands worked restlessly over his handgun, and he felt anxiety closing in. Unable to stand still any longer, he quietly closed the door behind him and prowled the perimeter as ordered, then climbed the hill in a low crouch to get a better view of the surrounding fields.

Only a glow in the West hinted at the moon sitting below the horizon and the fields stretching out around him in all directions were merely black against black shadows. Ronon sat on the hill for a long time, his eyes straining at the black nothingness, his ears roaring with silence as he listened for the sounds of growling or hissing that plagued his waking imagination. Despite the stillness, the air felt thick with tension; it vibrated through Ronon's body like a rumble of thunder – brooding and anxious. He scrubbed his face and cursed Sheppard again for forcing him to stop.

Ronon knew a healthy portion of his annoyance came from lingering anger at being disregarded during that first wacko experiment that had created Michael. And Michael had created the bug things. _I hate those damn bugs, too, _he thought, suddenly unable to shake the terrible image of the monster savaging Sheppard's leg as he struggled in its scaly grip. Sheppard had thrust his knife into the beast's belly and Ronon had been able to blast it aside as the thing reared up in fury at the wound.

With a sigh, Ronon closed his eyes briefly and willed the anger and frustration back into the past. It was interfering with his task in the present: getting them home alive. The local survivors had fled through the Stargate after realizing that ratting out the Atlanteans to Michael had only brought destruction and death among them rather than the prizes they'd been promised. The 'gate was over 2 miles away, Sheppard was injured, there were at least a half dozen more bugs on the planet, and he was sitting on a damn rabbit hole just waiting around for them to show up!

The radio in his ear clicked softly twice, interrupting Ronon's grousing. He touched his earpiece, "What do you want Sheppard?" Ok, so he hadn't exactly mastered ALL his frustrations…

"Get off the damn roof and get in here for a minute," Ronon chuckled, allowing himself to be amused. Sheppard was good to his word and clearly had been keeping his eyes on the scanner. There was a slight pause, then Sheppard continued more soberly, "They're coming."

A jolt of adrenaline shot through Ronon's chest and he raced down the hill, leaping the last few feet onto the path to the door, slamming it open and quickly closing it behind him once he was inside. He froze a moment later, swallowing back the smart remark he'd been about to crack. Sheppard sat slumped at the table, his head propped heavily on one hand, his elbow leaning over the scanner. His other hand was resting in a clenched fist on the bandaged leg that stuck out away from the table.

Feigning annoyance to cover his concern, Ronon rushed to Sheppard's side, and dropped to one knee, checking the bandage for himself and muttering, for Sheppard's benefit, about pain-in-the-ass do-it-yourselfers. The entire thigh was soaked in tacky blood, the fabric still damp and glistening. Dark droplets were splattered on the wooden floor beneath the chair. A saturated and discarded pressure pad lay wadded in the corner, the fresh one on Sheppard's leg already stained through.

Ronon peeled the edge away slightly and wrinkled his nose at the raw and still oozing flesh underneath. The beast had sunk its fangs in the leg as if to carry Sheppard off – it was no wonder the leg looked like a hunk of meat gnawed on by a canine. Ronon tutted over the wound, but found nothing more that he could do here. It would take some of Beckett's magic potions to ease the swollen redness and fight the heat beginning to radiate from John's sweaty head.

Sheppard spoke first, raising his head with effort and sitting up straighter in the chair, "So, it's like this: Atlantis isn't expecting us until morning, they won't be sending help for 6 more hours at least." Sheppard flicked his eyes at the scanner and Ronon, following the glance, frowned in mild confusion when he saw no glowing dots but their own on the screen. Sheppard went on with a slight smile, "You were right after all. You need to get to the 'gate."

Ronon suddenly stood up from his crouch and planted himself firmly in a mutinous posture. He'd been expecting this, he realized. "Of course I was right. WE need to get to the 'gate, WE should shut up and start moving Sheppard..."

Sheppard just shook his head and interrupted mildly, "My leg is shot, I'm down a few pints, blood pressure's low...feel like crap, actually."

"Stop whining. I'll carry your lazy ass."

"You won't make it if I'm with you."

"You don't know that!"

"They're after me. It's me that Michael's pissed at. And it's me that Michael wants. To study."

"You can't know that either!" Ronon was raising his voice, impatient with the arguing. He spun in a tight circle of agitation. Screw debating. He'd tried it Sheppard's way before, and he had freakin' bug monsters on his ass because of it. Ronon was seriously considering simply throwing the man over his shoulder and heading out the door.

"I fucking know enough!" Sheppard bellowed back, startling Ronon motionless again. Ronon glared and watched Sheppard warily. His superior's voice grew low and dangerous, "I know that Michael blames me for double crossing him at the settlement. I know that damn monster took a chunk out of my leg trying to take me with it when it could have just killed me. And..."

Sheppard suddenly broke off, looked quickly away swallowing hard. Ronon narrowed his eyes. He knew Sheppard well enough to recognize that the man was struggling with emotion. If it hadn't been so out of character, Ronon would have thought he was concealing fear. "Still doesn't mean we shouldn't go, now." Ronon was nothing if not stubborn.

Sheppard's eyes snapped suddenly up, held Ronon's with a desperate ferocity, "The damn things can sense me somehow and...I can sense them."

"...What?" Ronon felt disoriented as his mind spun with the revelation and the implications.

"I'm a goddamn homing beacon and they're on the way. I can...feel...them coming."

Sheppard was panting slightly from the intensity of the conversation, his eyes searching Ronon's face keenly. Ronon blinked, then grimaced as Sheppard's expression slowly slid into a smirk. Sheppard had him backed into a slicebill's nest, and knew it.

"You'll be able to make it to the 'gate while they're drawn here. You bring back a team of Marines with RPGs. Bugs get fried. We go home."

"You can't hold them off on your own. I should stay." Ronon couldn't quite believe he had just said that. This was why he should never argue with Sheppard.

"Look, we're talking hold them off together for 6 hours, or hold them off alone for 1. I'll take the cavalry any day over a last stand."

"How do you intend to hold them off alone for even one hour?"

Sheppard raised his eyebrow. "I have a plan," he said solemnly, picking up the P-90 and laying it pointedly across his lap.

"Bullshit," growled Ronon and turned his back on his friend to pace across the room. He felt trapped again, but this time by logic. Sheppard's plan made a certain amount of sense; except that it was more likely that Ronon would be returning to recover a body than rescue a friend. If they had just kept running from the start, they'd have made it to the 'gate by now. He wouldn't be having this conversation, and he wouldn't be choosing between a hopeless standoff and a longshot hair-brained scheme.

A thought struck him and he whirled suddenly, jabbing his finger accusingly at the still smirking Sheppard. "You knew all along. You planned to use yourself as bait from the moment we stopped here."

Sheppard shrugged, making Ronon want to slap the smug look off his face. "We weren't going to make it to the 'gate, Ronon. This way, at least one of us has a chance to." His voice grew pleadingly soft.

Ronon choked a harsh curse and punched the air with frustration. "Dammit, John!" he began, stepping forward aggressively with a scowl that usually intimidated all but the most idiotic of opponents. Sheppard, however, only narrowed his eyes and drew his chin up in the way he did just before pulling rank. Ronon braced himself, for once eager for the fight when…Sheppard hesitated.

Ronon was stunned. Sheppard opened his mouth again to say something, then closed it, and sat glaring.

For just a moment, Ronon felt like a first-year footman that had been scolded for shirking kitchen duty. He felt shame burning on his cheeks and something deeper burning in his chest. The man glaring at him with a shredded leg and fever glittering in his eyes was his friend AND his commander. Sheppard didn't want to pull rank. He wanted Ronon to trust him, to trust the course of action he'd set into play. They'd been friends, now, long enough for Ronon to realize how important that kind of trust was to John.

If he forced Sheppard to make a direct order, it would be as good as a slap in the face.

Sheppard's jaw was working, and he looked away as the silence stretched out.

"It's a stupid plan," Ronon said finally.

Sheppard's mouth twitched, "Which? The one where you run to the 'gate, or the one that'll hold off the bugs for an hour?"

"Pick one," Ronon spat. He moved determinedly to the door and opened it a crack, preparing himself to leave. He might choose brute force and direct action over precaution and a tricky plan, but, Michael aside, Sheppard hadn't let him down yet, he realized. He just hoped the man had enough luck to pull off one more hair-brained scheme.

"Good luck," Sheppard murmured from his chair at the table, echoing Ronon's thought.

Ronon turned back for one last look at his friend, trying to burn an image of confidence and bravery into his memory should he need it. Sheppard just looked tired and vulnerable.

"You too," he said, and slipped through the door into the deep night.


	2. Chapter 2

Ronon's eyes finally adjusted to the dim starlight and he broke into a slow jog, fighting the urge to leap into a flat-out run. He would outrun his visibility if he went too fast, he kept reminding himself. And twisting an ankle in the next half-hour would be a mortal injury; making it to the 'gate a few minutes later beat the hell out of not making it at all. 

To distract himself from the brooding darkness pressing in all around him, he counted his footsteps – measuring the passage of distance – and rechecked the stars. He was unfamiliar with this world's constellations or what they had called them here, but old habits still drove him to fix the 'gate's position in his consciousness and memorize landmarks to guide him to it from anywhere he had managed to wander. When the sun had set earlier that evening, he'd re-marked the 'gate by the stars that were popping out behind it.

The skills of a runner came back so easily to him, if, in fact, he could say he'd even left them behind. He still traveled warily, still marked the 'gate, still had several knives hidden on his body at all times. But lately, he'd grown rather used to traveling with companions. And he rather liked having a friend at his back when things did get sticky. It wasn't something he'd thought about for a while, but running alone, now, brought the painful absence into sharp contrast.

He was finally feeling his limbs limber up at the steady motion when the sound of P-90 fire crackling in long echoes over the empty fields suddenly jolted his heart into his ears and brought him skidding to a frozen standstill. Damn! He'd made it barely a kilometer before Sheppard had to deal with the bugs! He'd optimistically been hoping that perhaps he could make it back before the real fighting began, with or without the Marines.

Ronon stood motionless, torn in two. Every instinct in his body was pulling him back towards Sheppard, knowing the man was alone and boxed in. Every sense of duty that had ever been pounded into his skull demanded he complete his mission and alert the damn cavalry – whatever that was – as he'd been asked. The sudden silence as the gunfire stopped was a living thing, mocking him with its secrets. A thousand images of imagined horrors flicked through his mind…

The radio clicked. "Why are you just standing there?"

Ronon's heart started again and only his instinct to remain silent kept him from laughing out loud. Sheppard and his damn scanner. He started towards the Stargate again and tapped his ear, trying to force the relief out of his voice, "Are you OK?"

"Yeah," Sheppard sounded out of breath, from exertion or exhilaration Ronon couldn't tell. "Know a good dry cleaner around here that can get bug guts out of a jacket? This stuff's going to stain…"

"I'll look into it after I finish my other errands."

"Funny. You're almost out of range. I've got 2 on my scanner around here, which means there are 3 or 4 still out your way. Be careful. Sheppard out."

Ronon resisted the temptation to reply, realizing the impulse came from simply wanting the reassurance that Sheppard was still there. He jogged on.

The fencerow he was following in roughly a westerly direction finally ended at a wide dirt road that Ronon knew led between the village and the Stargate. Off to his right, a stately row of tall trees had been planted, lining the road and creating a shadowy tunnel towards the houses and markets of the deserted town. To his left…

Ronon quickly crouched low, quivering with adrenaline and the rage he allowed to surge through him – just enough to use, not enough to blind. Three grotesque figures were stalking just into view, walking together but in no organized formation. They were foul creatures, roughly man-like, but hunched in grotesque parody. Their hard, beetle black shells were slick and shiny, reflecting even the dim starlight. Distortions of human that they were, their intelligence was still limited to understanding only the simple commands they were given, depending on their brute strength, hunting instinct and vicious claws rather than skill or strategy. Or so Ronon had observed on Michael's planet.

He didn't know how keen their sense of smell or sight was, however, and he knelt, watching them for a few moments, trying to decide the best way to attack. Sheppard had told him to get to the 'gate, to bring help. But he hadn't told him NOT to engage the beasts if he had the chance. Perhaps he could even up the odds a bit for Sheppard…

Slipping stealthily into the waving field of wheergrain – Sheppard had called it Mutombo wheat – Ronon thumbed the power level on his bulky energy weapon up to full power and slowly moved towards the bugs, paralleling the road within the cover of the 7 foot tall, nearly ripe, grassy stalks. The slight breeze rustling the entire field covered what little noise he made as he worked his way closer.

A faint hissing and clicking grew louder over the sound of the moving plants and Ronon licked his lips, a feral grin spreading them. He heard the clicking draw up next to him, he could almost see the beasts on the path as he translated their sickening noises into a tactical layout of where they stood. The sudden crackle of more distant gunfire drew sharp hisses from the creatures and Ronon leaped onto the path, using the distraction and his own worry-fueled fury to time his ambush.

The creatures froze for a moment as Ronon burst from the edge of the field and pumped 3 rounds of deadly fire into the vulnerable midsection of the closest bug. But a moment of surprise was all he got. Even before the first creature had crumpled, its companion turned with startling speed and lunged at Ronon, swiping for his face with knife-like claws.

Ronon ducked and rolled, and the claws raked down his shoulder instead. The howl of pain escaped as a war-cry of fury and he came up from the roll smoothly drawing his short sword and swinging. The beast was already reaching for another swipe with its other arm offering Ronon an easy target. The creature shrieked and waddled back a few steps, stupidly looking at its severed stump.

Sword in one hand, gun in the other, Ronon still only had enough time to fire a couple of glancing shots into the third bug before ol' one-arm screeched and lunged at him again. Ronon pushed it back a step with more glancing shots, then backed off a step himself as the 2nd one charged once more. _Ancestors be damned, they were fast!_ And he'd forgotten how damned tough the shells were, shot after shot simply sparked or ricocheted away. They'd learned to turn their bellies away from the dangerous bolts, and were swaying between lunges and hits.

Yet another blast bounced away, the creatures kept coming and Ronon recognized a stalemate when he was on the wrong side of one. Turning on his heel, he dove into the wheergrain and ran. Stalks of brittle grain whipped past, some slapping against his shoulders and cheeks as they were whipped about in his wake. The clicking and hissing on his heels urged him even faster, and his concentration narrowed to the exclusion of everything but the next step under his foot. The ground was powdery and even, but a single misstep would be fatal. A single misstep would have those bugs on his back faster than a thesta on an eggbird.

The clicking grew so close that he heard the crunch of crushed grain joining the bugs' revolting vocalizations and in desperation, Ronon planted his heel and took off at a right angle from his initial course. The damn things were fast, very fast, but they weren't very agile. He heard their hiss of frustration and forced his tiring legs into another burst of speed. He wouldn't simply be able to outrun them, he thought, growing panicky. Damn, he never thought he'd miss Sheppard and his quirky plans.

The ground below him grew firmer and he had another two steps to pull up short, digging his heels and windmilling his arms before the field abruptly ended at the edge of a steeply sloping ditch. Ronon recognized the irrigation channel as the same one that passed under the road about a klick from the 'gate. He flung his gaze to his right and saw the road a few hundred yards away.

Behind him, he heard the scuttling creatures' hissing grow louder as they caught up.

Quickly holstering his weapons, he took two steps back the way he'd come, then propelled himself with all his might towards the ditch. Planting a foot on the very edge, he leaped towards the other side, as far as his strength could carry him. He landed heavily on his toes and hands against the opposite slope, and scrambled to its top, throwing himself into the next waving field beyond.

Panting and trembling with exertion, he crawled on his belly to peek out at the bank of the ditch he'd just left. His arm stung with the deep scratches scored by the bug's gory claws, and the tender flesh twinged as he flexed his shoulder slightly, testing the damage. The wounds were still sticky and oozing, but the muscle underneath seemed unharmed. He idly pressed powdery dirt into the scrapes while he watched.

One bug, then two, stalked out of the grain, following Ronon's path of destroyed stalks. They weaved their heads back and forth over the ground at the ditch, then ran back and forth for a moment, as if confused by the magical disappearance of their prey. They seemed unwilling to descend the steep slope into the ditch, and after another few moments of scuttling and hissing, they turned and vanished back into the field.

Back towards Sheppard.

The brief moment of relief at shaking off the beasts was quickly overshadowed by gut-gnawing worry. He listened briefly for ongoing gunfire, but the silence was again keeping its secrets.

Standing quickly, he turned into the field and decided he'd keep to its protective cover rather than the exposed road. Setting a risky pace, he hurried again towards the Stargate and tapped his earpiece twice. If Sheppard were listening and was free to reply, he'd open the channel.

Ronon was again counting his footsteps so he knew it had only been a couple dozen paces before the radio finally clicked to life, but it felt like an eternity of anxious waiting.

"What do you want? I'm busy." This time Sheppard's voice was breathy and tight.

"Doing what?" said Ronon, gulping again with reserved relief.

"Working on…plan B…" There was a grunt, then Sheppard went on, his voice less constricted, "You at the 'gate yet?"

"I'm a klik away. Ran into some friends. I got one; two are headed your way."

"Understood. I got three, so that makes: four down…two more to go. Scratch that – four more to go. Two just showed up on the LSD coming from the village." His voice sounded tight again.

"You said there were five or six!"

"I said six or seven…or eight."

"Sheppard…"

"Let me know when you're at the 'gate. It'll…it'll help."

"John."

"They want me alive, Ronon. I'll be ok. Sheppard out."

_Small comfort, Sheppard._

So now it was a race. Ronon ran faster, throwing all caution to the wind, keeping his course straight and true despite the tall grain that rose up before him and folded behind him such that he felt as if he weren't moving at all. Occasionally, he would reach up and slap apart the grain above him and check the stars. Like the moon, they, too, were sliding into the west. The sun would be appearing in the East soon, but there was no blush in the sky, yet. Only the coldest, darkest, deepest part of the night remained around him, and his breath fogged up in great steamy gusts with each forceful exhale.

He didn't think he'd ever run so fast in the dark, or so hard, or been so tempted to turn around and put the safety of the 'gate behind his back. He'd never run so hard for someone else before, and the anxiety was tenfold what he felt when running for himself. He didn't have to run for himself anymore. Sheppard had saved him from running. Sheppard had come for him when he'd been caught again. And despite being a pig-headed, lazy son of a, immature, _not at all funny_…STANG! Ancestors hang him, he was as close to a brother as Ronon had left in this galaxy.

Finally, the ground under his pounding feet hardened again and, this time aware of the implications, Ronon pulled up, gasping, to peer out of the field before he left its protective cover. The grassy lane before him separated the wheergrain from a field of low, sprawling Tava beans and he could see for miles ahead and in either direction.

The road was still a few yards to his right, and the Stargate sat glowing in a shrub-rimmed meadow a few more yards further on.

Glowing?

Hard pressed to control the anger that was threatening to pass controllable boundaries, Ronon watched the active Stargate disgorge more hunching, hissing, armored beasts from the wrong side of the underworld. Quickly counting, he came up with 8 more and watched 5 of them speed swiftly away down the road in a clicking, disorganized pack. Three were left milling around the meadow and the DHD once the 'gate shut down.

Sheppard was screwed.

The sound of very faint gunfire drifted on the breeze to where Ronon crouched in seething despair, so distant that the sharp cracks of the powerful weapon sounded like a child's celebration crackers. Roaring with sudden, overflowing fury, Ronon charged out of the grain and descended on the three creatures at the 'gate.

Unfazed by the demented approach, the bugs clicked to each other and bunched together in their eagerness to seize the intruder. Ronon fired wildly, his sword back in his other hand, and managed to score a lethal hit. The unlucky creature fell twitching to the ground, but served as a cautionary tale for the others who immediately began turning their bellies, even as they grabbed and clawed at Ronon.

Step by step, inch by inch, Ronon drove them away from the DHD and worked himself closer and closer to it, his weapon beginning to heat his hand from the constant fire. When at last he stood next to his destination, Ronon hesitated. It was taking his entire concentration to simply keep the hissing creatures at bay, how the hell was he going to dial?

Stalemated again for a moment, he suddenly shifted his grip on the sword and threw it to land in two graceful arcs through the middle of the nearest beast. It shrieked and fell backwards to flail with kicking legs and arms. Ronon quickly pumped a dozen short bursts into the shell of the remaining creature, missing any vital shots, but warming the thick armor into painful heat.

While the thing raged, scuttling about in random circles, Ronon slammed his hands into the symbols and slapped the glowing orange globe that would initiate the wormhole. He had his GDO out of his pocket even before the reaching initialization wave splashed back into a gurgling puddle.

The hissing beast stopped raging and shook itself like a dog shaking off a smack to its nose. It then locked its dim, beady eyes on Ronon, simple revenge clear in its primitive posture. Ronon touched his earpiece, his own eyes also locked on the enemy.

"Sheppard! I'm at the Stargate. I've made the connection, I'm switching channels now to request backup, then I'll join you until they get here! There are five more headed your way."

Ronon had no intention of going through the 'gate himself, not once he was freed from his orders and could damn well sit beside Sheppard's lazy ass and shoot bugs for him until the Marines showed up! He hastily flicked the dial on the radio transmitter in his pocket and touched his ear again.

"Atlantis, this is Ronon requesting an extraction force and Jumper air support. Code Alpha 6-niner. ASAP. As many as 8 hostiles are going for Colonel Sheppard who is taking cover in a nearby cottage."

At that, Ronon had to focus on the remaining bug again as it lunged at him, swiping with both, knife-sharp claws. Ronon circled around the DHD and put the Stargate at his back. He fired into the beast, and again the beast paused to shudder at the heat.

"Ronon, this is Atlantis. Acknowledged, strike force is being mustered. ETA 15 minutes. Are you coming through now?"

_Hell no!_ Ronon wanted to say, but the creature lunged yet again and he danced again out of the way. The heat from the weapon in his palm was almost scalding and Ronon got two more blasts off before the gun made a sputtering sizzle, whined pitifully then went dark under his fingertips. His sword lay embedded in the other beast 10 steps away.

The bug clicked happily, sensing its prey's sudden panic. Ronon took a reluctant step closer to the flickering event horizon, pulled out a hidden knife and flung it at the monster. It bounced away harmlessly, deflected by tough chiton. The bug scuttled a few steps nearer, hissing it's foul breath, but hesitant -- remembering the scalding fire. Ronon also took a step backwards. He had only one place left to go.

"Atlantis. Lower the shield. I'm…coming through."

Despite knowing that he had no choice – that he was weaponless and backed into a wall – Ronon still hesitated on the threshold, watching as the bug monster took small, testing swipes at him. His eyes drifted to the black horizon, and he ground his teeth in helplessness. He changed the channel again and touched his ear.

"Sheppard. I'll be back. I've got to go to Atlantis for more ordinance."

The receiver in Ronon's ear clicked then crackled with interference – they were at the far end of reception range.

"S'OK. Go. I've got a plan." Sheppard's voice was barely audible over the static. The radio went silent.

A bright-white flash lit the fields and landscape for an instant, then flicked to black again just before the muffled boom rolled over the horizon. Ronon blinked, then sucked in a startled breath. "Sheppard?!" There was no answer.

The creature finally gathered its courage and with a shriek lunged at Ronon's midsection. Ronon simply fell backwards into the Stargate, the orange after-image of the flash burning into his eyelids.

_What the hell did you just do?_


	3. Chapter 3

Ronon paced like a caged tiger before the silent Stargate as the noise and bustle of controlled chaos swirled around him, late morning sunshine catching the colored panes of the tower windows and casting strange shapes and sparkles of light onto the cool deck of the gateroom. After the dark and cold night he'd fled from, the brightness seemed harsh, unnaturally warm.

Teyla and six heavily armed Marines led by Captain Anderson were nearby, hastily throwing on their gear and wrestling weapons into readiness. They would go through the 'gate on foot and clean up any bugs between there and Sheppard's position. Two would remain to secure the group's eventual retreat, and hold off any more bugs Michael decided to send through. Another group of soldiers plus McKay and Beckett would fly a jumper through and head directly for the cottage, surveying the situation at they went.

All this Ronon was aware of, but his mind was trapped back on the planet. Every pacing step he took was another step the five last creatures were gaining on Sheppard's position…and Sheppard had played his last card. Like an alarm going off, Ronon suddenly realized that exactly an hour had passed since he'd left the warm candlelight of Sheppard's hideout.

_"It's a stupid plan." _

_"Which? The one where you run to the 'gate, or the one that'll hold off the bugs for an hour?" _

_"Pick one," _

Sheppard couldn't hold them off much longer…if he'd managed this long. "Can we go already?!" he shouted with a snarl, every second feeling like a precious gem being stolen from him.

"We're ready," Teyla replied firmly, her own expression no less anxious or determined.

Ronon sprang into motion, "Then go, and good hunting!" He leaped up the stairs, bellowing the order to open the 'gate as he passed through the control room, then continued up more stairs to the jumper bay.

The second group was milling around the nearest jumper, but scurried inside with efficient speed the moment they saw Ronon. The hatch closed even before Ronon had made it into the cockpit and he felt the jumper lurch slightly as the pilot, Lt. Jones, brought it off the deck and towards the opening iris in the center of the bay. Ronon nodded to himself in silent appreciation: these people were well trained, well disciplined.

And they were all Sheppard's people, he thought with new insight: Jones hadn't waited for a formal command to launch. They knew what had to be done, and they did it. The trust Sheppard held in those he commanded was as deep as the trust he asked from them.

"Sheppard's transponder should guide us straight to him," McKay was muttering from his spot in the co-pilot's seat. Ronon just nodded. He knew that. He also knew he could guide the jumper to the cottage without any scanners at all. Smooth grey walls slid by the cockpit window as it descended until it was filled with the flickering glow of the active Stargate. Jones hovered just off the 'gateroom floor and there was a collective breath of expectant silence inside the little ship.

The radio clicked. "This is Anderson. The 'gate is clear. We got Ronon's last little friend, come on through jumper 2."

"Acknowledged," replied Jones and flung the jumper into the event horizon.

On the other side, night seemed to swallow the little ship and Jones dimmed the interior lights to reduce the glare against the windshield. He circled the 'gate once to get his bearings, then headed over the grain fields, roughly following the road. McKay burst into activity and the heads' up display came to life with data and the blinking dots of the life signs detector.

"We got Sheppard," he said, pointing to a glowing red dot on the screen. "There are two life signs in his immediate vicinity, three more gaining on his location fast, and two straggling behind on the road."

Anderson replied via the radio, "Got it. We're right behind you Jumper 2. My LSD confirms the two on the road. How'd you like some target practice, Jones?"

Jones grinned, "Love it, sir!" The pilot took the craft a bit higher, then the display on the screen zoomed to focus on the two straggling creatures far below them, hidden in the shadows of the dirt path. A streak of light suddenly leapt away from the jumper and a satisfying explosion of sound rumbled mutedly through the tough shell of the tiny craft. The two dots in the target zone faded…and winked out.

"Kill confirmed!" Jones shouted with enthusiasm and Ronon shook his head at the exuberance of youth, feeling only worry and weariness. They still had 5 to go.

"Thank you jumper 2. We'll see you at the extraction coordinates. Anderson out."

"Is Sheppard moving?" Ronon asked McKay suddenly.

"What? No. No, he's just sitting there," replied the scientist sounding haughtily surprised at the question. He brought the LDS back to a wider view then zoomed in a bit on the red dot. His voice was suddenly low and concerned. "These guys are awfully close to him, though." Five white dots circled the red one, seeming to overlap it on the display. McKay exchanged an uncomfortable look with Jones. The transponder would continue broadcasting even if Sheppard were dead...

The beasts were probably too close to Sheppard for an air strike, Ronon thought, quickly pushing aside the gloomy thoughts hanging in the air and turning to the issue at hand – he needed to stay focused on destroying the last of the bugs. "Jones, go to stealth and take us over Sheppard's position. The cottage was built into a hill…" He would worry about rescue or contemplate revenge once the creatures were taken care of.

Jones nodded, "30 seconds sir."

"I'm switching the display to night vision," McKay added, and the windshield shifted to display a slightly green and overly bright version of the landscape zipping by below. The dots remained, overlaid with the scenery. Ronon leaned closer to the screen, squinting ahead and vainly trying to catch a glimpse of something – the path to the cottage, perhaps? Or maybe a hint as to what Sheppard had decided to blow up? He finally noticed that he was bracing himself, mentally and physically – preparing for the worst. Images of Sheppard being torn apart by 5 bug beasts kept flicking into his mind, no matter how forcefully he flung them aside.

30 seconds never felt so long, and the ground slid slowly by underneath them.

"There," Ronon pointed at the screen at last, "the house is in that slight ridge, facing East."

They were approaching from the West, so Jones pivoted the ship to keep the nose facing the ridge even as he was slowing down and sinking lower ever so slightly. When the craft finally stopped to hover directly over the hill, McKay gave a low whistle.

"What happened here?" he wondered aloud.

Ronon stood speechless. A great, raw wound of bare dirt was gouged out of the grassy Eastern bank, just where the door to the underground cottage had been. The door itself Ronon could see lying alone, a few feet from the uprooted flowering bushes that had once bloomed beside it. In the strange green-glowing display, it looked as if someone had simply decided to build a wide, sloping, dirt ramp from the path to the top of the hill.

A small clump of earth rolled down the oddly regular slope of the gouge and Ronon's head began to steam as he spotted a grotesque figure, digging into the freshly torn soil like a dog searching for a bone. Another creature scuttled over the hilltop, and stopped to dig, too, for a moment, then moved in another random direction to dig somewhere else.

"Sheppard, you crazy bastard," he said softly to himself. He took one last long look at the destruction, shaking his head at his friends' handiwork, then, in a tone of command he turned to address the group of soldiers sitting alertly in the back. "Sheppard buried himself in the hill, he's safe for the moment," Ronon began, fervently hoping the statement was true. _He's either safe or dead… _"There are 5 bugs to get rid of, then we can dig him out and go home."

"Shall I use the drones, sir?" The question came from Jones.

"Negative. They're too close to Sheppard, the hill might come down on top of him. We get to do this the hard way."

The Marines exchanged steely looks of eagerness, tinged with revenge. Ronon suddenly remembered the team of Marines that had been killed in Michael's lair. These men had a score to settle with the bugs, too. "Yes sir," the commander of the group replied. "You've been fighting these things all night, sir. Any ideas on the best approach?"

Ronon smiled his feral smile again and borrowed a page from Sheppard's book. "I have a plan," he said.

The bugs didn't have a chance.

15 minutes later, Ronon gave the command to assault the creatures that continued to dig and scuttle around Sheppard's hidey-hole, unaware of the stealthy deployment of pissed-off Atlanteans around them. The battle was over almost before it began. The three creatures that were unfortunate enough to have wandered far enough away from the crumbling hill to be targets for the RPGs exploded spectacularly, lighting up the ground under them with hot, white flashes.

The remaining two were cut nearly in half by simultaneous M16 fire and Ronon roared a hoarse cry of relief along with the other joyful shouts and victory gunfire around him as the last bug fell. There were advantages to numbers and superior weapons, he thought, realizing that both were a luxury he'd forgotten during his time running alone.

Ronon was so pleased with the quick success, that he decided he'd even leave the task of chewing out the younger team members for wasting ordinance to Sheppard. The perimeter was suddenly lit with bright beams of multiple flashlights, and the Marines quickly jogged together to regroup in front of the slide of bare ground. Victory joy quickly sobered into subdued contemplation.

There was a long moment when everyone just stared at the ground and waved their lights over the slope, optimistically hoping they'd simply see their CO poke his head out and wave at them. When he didn't, nor did he respond to repeated queries over the radio, Ronon felt anxiety sour his stomach again.

"We'll dig!" he finally ordered, struggling to remain composed.

4 or 5 collapsible shovels were brought out of the well-stocked jumper and flashlights and flares were scattered all around to light the area. The Marines attacked the pile of dirt with as much energy as they had attacked the bugs. McKay and Beckett soon joined them from the recently re-settled jumper and took charge of the effort, Rodney scanning the hill for air pockets and guiding the mud-flinging free-for-all into a coordinated effort slightly higher up the slanted slide. Beckett fussed until one Marine was given the task of trying to poke a pole as deep as it would go to try to open up an air vent or two.

Ronon found himself pushed back from the activity as the work organized itself and ended up standing alone next to the broken, discarded cottage door, pressed between the harsh artificial light of the flares and the deep blackness of the night at his back. Left with nothing to do for the moment, and unsure of the outcome despite Beckett's continued reassurances that Sheppard's life sign was still in there – if a little faint and worrisome -- Ronon was something at a loss. He knew how to run, he knew how to fight. He had poured every ounce of his strength into bringing back help…and now that he'd done so? He waited.

He walked in a tight circle of frustration and kicked at a clod of dirt, watching it explode into a puff of dust at the contact. Everyone else was too busy to notice the outburst, and that made him all the more annoyed. When Teyla joined him a quarter hour later, jogging out of the darkness with her team from the 'gate, he was practically vibrating with tightly strung tension and stood grinding dirt into dust under his boot.

Teyla seemed to size him up, taking a good long look as he cocked his hip and returned her scrutiny with annoyed amusement. "Well done, Ronon," she said finally, nodding at a dead bug that lay nearby and touching his arm briefly in reassurance. "I know it must have been very difficult to leave him behind."

Ronon looked down and kicked the dirt again. "He said he had a plan," he began, realizing the words sounded like desperate justification. "I didn't know he meant to bury himself alive, the idiot."

Teyla smiled, although her eyes remained troubled. "John often has an overly optimistic opinion of his own plans." She suddenly twisted and reached for something stuck into the loops on her pack. "Here," she said, pulling out the sword Ronon had left at the 'gate embedded in the guts of yet another dead bug. "You can threaten him with this when he's recovered."

Ronon took the sword and held it lovingly up to the light, watching it reflect the strange orange glow of the flares, then smoothly slid it into its scabbard at his back. "I will."

McKay joined them a couple of minutes later, brushing dirt off his hands and jacket and complaining briefly about the Marines' inability to aim the dirt they were flinging. "They can shoot a fly out of the air at 100 yards, but they can't keep track of where a whole shovel full of dirt is going?" But even Rodney's muttering died out and the three friends stood for a while in anxious companionable silence, watching Sheppard's men dig, wondering if they would find their team leader or a tomb.

When a sudden outburst of shouting and waving finally snapped Ronon out of black speculation, he hurried to the edge of the excavation in three long steps, demanding an explanation. The rest were hard on his heels, and McKay pushed past to climb the hill a bit further and wave his scanner about.

Captain Anderson caught his eye and called down, "We've got something sir. It looks like we've hit a board or a wall or something, but it sounds hollow underneath. There's a void here."

"It's the roof," Ronon called back, suddenly understanding Sheppard's intent: he'd blown out the front wall of the house, hoping the roof would remain intact and create something of a lean-to effect against the sliding dirt. Apparently that part had worked. He just hoped Sheppard had had enough air.

"Do we have something to cut through it?" yelled Beckett, hovering always at the edge of the activity and startling Ronon with the worried urgency on his face.

"I'll check the jumper…" one voice answered to the sound of running feet.

Ronon abruptly drew his energy weapon and touched the controls. A satisfying whine of readiness and a faint red glow brought a tight smile to his face – the weapon had finally cooled off and reset. "Move!" he bellowed, scrambling up the slope to the spot of roof Anderson had cleared. Anderson and the rest slid to the bottom and watched as Ronon pointed the muzzle at the aged, brittle wood and fired.

The red-hot beam charred a wide circle and the wood sizzled a bit, damp from its long contact over the years with the hillside. A second blast chewed through and left blackened edges still slightly smoking. Ronon bellowed for a light that was quickly tossed up to him. Swallowing hard, he lay on his belly and leaned over into the dark space beneath him, terrified of what he would find yet unable to allow anyone else to look first.

"At least the Colonel has some fresh air, now. That'll help the lad, whatever condition he's in."

Ronon looked up in surprise at the voice that had spoken practically in his ear. Beckett was kneeling a few feet away, just opposite the hole. The man's presence was incredibly reassuring and Ronon looked down again to swing the flashlight around the void.

The roof was only about 5 feet from the wooden floor of the cottage at this point in its slope. The floor itself was covered in thick layer of dirt and dust, and Ronon could see the destroyed remains of the simple wooden chairs and the cot, crushed under the edge of the roof that had fallen. Ronon sucked in a breath as the light swept across a damp puddle of something sticky pooled in the dirt…then exhaled in relief as a second look revealed the squashed remains of a bug monster.

"Anything? Do you see anything?" Beckett pestered.

"Not yet."

Ronon next angled his beam away from where the roof met the ground, back towards where the little door and the dirt closet would have been. An odd sight fell under the beam's glow and he twisted his head awkwardly to try to get a better look. He gave up in frustration – the hole just wasn't big enough and the air was thick with dust and dirt trickling through widening cracks in the roof – but he was pretty sure he'd seen the cottage's wooden table standing lengthwise on its end, propped against the far wall.

"I'm going in," he announced, standing abruptly.

"Me too," said Beckett matter-of-factly.

"Not yet, doc. Place looks pretty unstable. I'll call you if Sheppard looks like he shouldn't be moved."

Beckett glared, but finally nodded, stepping back from the hole that Ronon was preparing to widen with more blaster shots. The group at the bottom of the hill stood quietly watching, some wiping sweat off filthy faces, all looking pale and anxious against the velvet backdrop of the night.

When Ronon dropped into the space through a now-gaping hole, and knelt into a crouch to get his first good look around, he felt his heart pounding in his ears. His face felt hot and flushed, and he fought down an uncontrollable urge to leap out of the cave-like cottage and run. He'd seen too many peers, colleagues and friends, die in holes just like this one on Sateda. The ghosts of his past were pressing in on him, and he took a few deep breaths to hold them at bay. The air smelled stale and stuffy.

Pulling from deep reserves of a different kind of courage, he finally snapped his flashlight up and probed the beam into the darkness at the back of the cottage. A steady rain of powdery dirt poured down from top of the back wall like a flat waterfall, making a constant shushing sound and filling the air with dust. Ronon coughed slightly and raised his arm to cover his nose and mouth. In a slow crouching creep, he moved towards the back wall and the table that was indeed propped upright.

As he drew closer, Ronon realized that the table was, in fact, holding the roof itself up. The cottage had shifted as the hill slid, separating the roof from the back wall. When all was said and done, the roof had come to rest on the end of the table that Sheppard had propped up for some reason. Suddenly guessing that the table had been placed there to protect Sheppard from the blast of C4 he was going to set off, Ronon hurried towards it and flung his light into the space behind.

It took him a moment to recognize the form on the ground as his friend, so covered in an even layer of fine dust that the shape looked more like a sculpture than a man. Sheppard lay slumped behind the table, curled into a defensive ball and looking like he'd simply fallen over from sitting with his hands wrapped around his knees. One hand was clutched around his P-90, the light on its scope dim and orange with the feeble look of batteries nearly drained.

Heart pounding, but determined to see it through, Ronon gently felt at Sheppard's neck for a pulse. At the strong, but fast, flutter under his fingertips, Ronon sank onto one knee and hung his head, relief burning in his eyes. Sheppard was alive. And, Ancestors help him, Ronon would keep him that way now he'd been given the chance.

He slapped the unconscious soldier on the shoulder in a sudden expression of happiness, sending up clouds of dust that swirled like mist in the flashlight's harsh beam. Sheppard groaned and coughed, but remained unconscious, panting in shallow gasps. Ronon's jaw set in determination.

He first returned briefly to the hole and poked his head up above the dirt rim to relay the happy news. Once the spontaneous cheers and whistles died down, Ronon hastily ordered one man only to join him inside the hill, pointedly excluding Beckett from the acceptable volunteers, then returned to Sheppard's side as the doctor fumed beside the opening.

The wooden planks above him creaked ominously and bowed even further into the remaining space as someone walked up the dirt slope. The waterfall of dirt thickened and the shush grew to a noisy, constant hissing as the crack widened. Captain Anderson dropped lightly down to join him, burdened with some kind of medical pack, and immediately lit a flare, tossing it into a corner where it lit the room with orangely glowing brightness. Anderson took a quick look around, the let out a low whistle.

"Nice place the Colonel's got here," he said, the attempt at humor falling flat as another waterfall of dust burst through yet another crack, this time at the North wall. The young officer quickly scuttled over to join Ronon.

Between them, they slapped as much dirt as they could off of Sheppard's body and face and Anderson quickly fit an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. "Beckett insisted on the O2," the Captain explained as Ronon raised an eyebrow at the medical pack and his efforts. "He was having kittens about it, actually, so I promised I'd bring it to keep the doc from coming in himself."

Ronon only grunted in agreement and gathered himself to heave Sheppard up from his slump into a position they could lift him together. A quick yank, and a gentle arm for support, and the Colonel was neatly out from behind the table. As Ronon lowered his head to the ground to reposition, Sheppard twitched and began to groan, working his way back to consciousness. Either the oxygen, or the motion had revived the man, Ronon supposed, and so he waited a moment until Sheppard's eyes opened a crack and focused with difficulty on Ronon's face.

'What…took you…so… long?" Sheppard croaked, flopping a hand onto Ronon's arm and squeezing slightly. Ronon just beamed.

"I thought you wanted a dry cleaner," he grunted.

Sheppard smiled slightly, then nodded, closing his eyes again. Ronon nodded to Anderson who was also grinning and they began to shift positions, planning to drag their burden the rest of the way out of the hole.

A sudden groan and the abrupt hissing of more and more fissures dropping springs of dirt snapped their heads towards the roof. The stressed planks were bowing even more deeply and the edge caught against the end of the table by a row of jagged, rusty nails was pulling it slowly towards the middle of the void, tilting it to an unsteady angle. If the table slipped, the rest of the roof would flatten down on top of it – and anything else down there.

Leaping to his feet, Ronon threw his shoulder against the very top of the table, pressing into the artificial joint and holding the table from tilting any further. "Take Sheppard!" he snarled. "Get him out, then bring me a brace."

Anderson scrambled. He knelt into a crouch, then smoothly yanked Sheppard into a fireman's carry over his shoulder and heaved himself to the hole, carefully angling his shoulders up and through. Together, he and Beckett awkwardly wrestled the man onto the dirt above, and Ronon could hear the creaking footsteps of the doctor on the roof as he dragged Sheppard down the hill to safety.

Ronon's thighs began to tremble as the roof groaned again and the table slipped a terrifying inch. Ronon growled and prevented it from slipping another with brute strength. Then Anderson was back with a long 2 by 4 board from the splintered cot. He drove one end into the increasingly deep layer of dirt on the floor, then wedged the other end next to Ronon's shoulder against the scarred face of the table. It wouldn't hold for long, but it would give Ronon a head start towards the exit.

"Go, now!" he grunted, his shoulders shuddering now, too. "I'll be right…behind you."

For a split second, Ronon saw a flash of concerned defiance cross the loyal Captain's face, but then he nodded crisply. "Yes, sir. I'll get out of your way!" And he bent over to scuttle to the opening, pulling himself up and through with an agile leap. Ronon smiled as the man disappeared; Anderson was Sheppard's man, through and through.

The roof shrieked with weariness, and the table trembled against the pole at Ronon's shoulder. Taking a final, deep preparatory breath – through his nose, so as not to inhale the dust that hung thickly in the air – Ronon suddenly bolted away from the table and ran for the opening, bending low as the roof sagged further and further and more waterfalls of dirt hissed into the void. With a crackling snap, the dry, brittle brace snapped in two and the table fell, just as Ronon launched himself through the hole and landed in a bruising heap on the dirt above.

Sprawled in a filthy heap, Ronon rode the roof down as it settled against the floor in a muffled whoof. A geyser of dust was blown through the exit hole to sprinkle him with stinging bits of debris.

With a low groan, Ronon rolled onto his back and threw his arm over his face. The cool night breeze finally blew the dust away and he rested in its chilly freshness. When he at last threw off the arm and opened his eyes, he was surprised to see half a dozen Marines standing quietly around him.

"Well done sir," Anderson said with heartfelt solemnity. He stuck out his hand, and Ronon took the offer gratefully, pulling himself up to stand on still quivering legs. He felt slaps on his back and shoulders as several of the other men expressed their respect.

"How's Sheppard," Ronon panted, rolling his shoulders to stretch out the tension. The long-forgotten scratches from the long-dead bug stung a bit with the motion. He moved slowly towards the clump of people gathered at the bottom of the now gentle slope.

"He's OK, sir. He's asking about you." The grin on Anderson's face told Ronon the rest. Nevertheless, Ronon still needed to see for himself that his friend was truly well.

He was greeted just as warmly by Teyla and McKay, and it took him a few minutes of nodding and grunting "no problem"s to push his way through the crowd for a glimpse of John.

Sheppard sat on the ground, wearily hunched and leaning heavily on an arm that trailed an IV line. The bag of fluids was slung over Sheppard's shoulder, looking somewhat precarious as Sheppard listed slightly to one side. Dr. Beckett was field dressing the mangled thigh, and Ronon saw ripples of pain shudder through his friend's long frame, although John allowed only an annoyed glare into his expression, and only creative expletives to escape his lips.

Suddenly feeling exhausted himself, Ronon flopped himself in front of Sheppard, and wrapped his arms around crossed legs in a comfortable slouch. Sheppard watched him get settled then grinned. "You OK?"

Ronon nodded slowly, considering the question more seriously than it was intended. He had some things to think about, some new insight into Sheppard and Sheppard's people that he would need to reconcile, but… yeah, "I'm OK." He answered finally. "You OK?"

At that moment, Sheppard winced, sucking in a sharp breath. He glared at Beckett, who was murmuring an insincere apology, before saying sharply, "No. Not really." He paused and nodded at his leg, but Ronon had seen his eyes flick to a nearby bug corpse and knew that he was really thinking about the disturbing realization that he had some lingering connection to the beasts.

Ronon waited and eventually John met his eyes, "But I will be," he added with fierce determination.

Ronon nodded in companionable agreement.

Half an hour later, Ronon sat comfortably sprawled on a rear bench of the dimly lit Jumper, wrapped in a wool blanket and seriously considering a nap, despite the short trip. Sheppard slouched opposite him, equally wrapped up and comfortable, looking like he'd already dozed off. Beckett had banished everyone but McKay and Teyla from the jumper, leaving the rest of the Marines to hoof it back home, and was currently rummaging in his medical kit up front with the other two.

A sudden thought, brought Ronon out of his slouch to lean forward and chew on his lip in agitated contemplation. For a while, he just stared at Sheppard wondering if he should disturb the man and if he was really asleep. Just as he was about to give up and try to find a quiet moment some other time, Sheppard cracked open a sleepy eye.

"What!" he snapped crossly, although Ronon could see that his eyes were amused.

"We wouldn't have made it to the 'gate." Ronon folded his hands together, and spoke the confession as solemnly as if he were laying his life down before a judge. There had been too many on the road; they would have been drawn to Sheppard like moths to a flame; Sheppard would have been unable to avoid them with his injury… _You were right my friend. _

Sheppard chuckled, then sighed. "You made it to the 'gate," he said, reminding Ronon of what he'd accomplished, and in doing so, shrugging off the implied apology. "You made it to the 'gate. You brought help. Bugs got fried. We're going home." This time when he sighed, it was with satisfaction.

Ronon sighed too, finally able to relax completely. He was beginning to realize that Sheppard prioritized for life. When he took crazy risks, it was balanced with the hope of a bigger payoff and fewer casualties…even his own. "It was still a stupid plan," Ronon muttered sleepily.

"Which? The one that got you to the 'gate, or the one that took out five – I repeat _five_ – damn bugs and held the rest off for _over_ an hour?"

Ronon snorted, "Pick one!" He said.

They were both asleep before the jumper reached the Stargate. Behind them in the East, the first pale blush of morning crept over the horizon and warmed the backs of the sturdy Atlantis Marines as they marched cheerfully towards home.

_A/N: I'm truly surprised and gratified at the interest and pleasure in this little ditty. I wasn't sure it was working at the beginning, but I've been pleased with the way it turned out. Thanks for all the encouragement. Let me know what you think! Warm regards..._


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